Lost Merries' Tale:Nothing is Forgotten
by Tinya
Summary: The tale of the lesser known protectors of Sherwood-Dickon, Will, Martin and James.


The Merries Series  
  
The Tales of Dickon of Barnslea, Will Fletcher, James, and Martin: Nothing is Forgotten  
  
They crouched at either end of the chamber, faces barely visible in the dank gloom, their tunics wet with the damp that clung to the cold stone walls. They had been trapped for months in the fetid darkness with only the taciturn Will Scarlet and a madman. Dickon of Barnslea, tall and fair, a halo of straw colored hair wreathing his head, and Will Fletcher, dark and small, stood shoulder to shoulder against the near daily onslought of savagery and insanity.   
  
Dickon picked pieces of moulding straw out of his hair and listened as members of the Nottingham garrison dragged the latest poor bastards down the wide stone steps. Will lifted his head, his dark eyes glitering as filthy straw rustled under his bootsoles. The sounds grew louder as the grille above their heads raised and two young men were shoved over the edge and into the hole.   
  
One, the younger of the two, shook a head full of tawny curls as he landed on all fours, babbling of demons. The other, a dark haired youth, murmered tense encouragement as he coaxed the tow headed lad to his feet. From the semi-darkness in front of him, Dickon saw Scarlet shift ever so slightly. Dim light from the torches above lined the hollows of Scarlet's cheeks, making his eyes into darkened pits. The older of the newcomers moved instinctively to shield the other, and raised a pair of startling hazel eyes. Will Fletcher barely breathed as he heard the taciturn Scarlet siphon his barely contained frustration onto the youth. As one, he and Dickon stood, and found themselves face to face with destiny.   
  
__________________  
  
The life of a Wolf's Head rarely led to a peaceful death in old age. This awareness flowed like heart's blood along the knife's edge of conciousness, lending a vividness to every moment. The outlaws ranged across the blasted ground of Bellame Castle's outer bailey. Achingly vulnerable without the protecting cover of Sherwood Forest, they howled their defiance against the implacable wall of shields that moved inexorably towards them. Dickon and Will joined their comrades in a headlong rush that splintered the oncoming phlanx. They wielded their swords with the rough determination of men more accustomed to the bow and the stave. Once prisoners of Nottingham, freedom's clarion call made them heroes, and even Death paled before laying an icy hand on their shoulders.  
  
__________________________________  
  
Flaming arrows rent the sky like etched schythes. The remaining outlaws stood, silent and somber. Robin of Loxley once, now Herne's Son, Robin of Sherwood, stared at the ground, lost in thoughts of the men who had died at his side, some only newly made part of the outlaw band. Marion was still dressed in the long white shift Bellame had intended to be her death shroud, her fingers running along the edge of her bow. Brother Tuck, now Friar Tuck, crossed himself with trembling fingers as the man newly christened Little John leaned sadly on his enormous longbow and sniffed loudly into his beard. Will Scarlet stood with his jaw clenched, remembering the men who had, in their own way, saved him from himself in the darkness of the prison hole in Nottingham. The white feathers that dark haired Will had so carefully fletched in the waning light of sunset now ignited in memorial. The lake's surface hissed and sparkled before swallowing the arrows in the emerald depths below.   
  
___________________________________  
  
The warm afternoon sun warmed the golden-brown mud hut and glinted in the grains of sand embedded in the rough walls. Beneath the overhanging thatch sat a giant, his broad shoulders draped in an enormous fur surcoat. A large wooden staff leaned against the wall by his side. His head drooped onto his chest, his mouth slightly open, his eyes firmly closed. A mass of tawny hair coupled with his bushy brown beard. A sleeping lion.   
  
He was poor - it was evident his purse held little and probably never had held more than a few base coins. But a poor freed man had more than they would ever see. For the two bondsmen standing over him, theivery was the only escape from a numb life of servitude. Martin of Liester, his fair hair shining in the light, reached out to curl back the edge of the sleeping man's tunic, three fingers looping slowly around the small cloth purse underneath. James of Liester, tense, ran sweaty fingers through greasy brown curls as Martin slid the tip of his dagger through the leather ties.   
  
The man's staff fairly flew into his broad, calloused hands and swung, knocking Martin's legs from under him and then returned in it's arc to fell James. The big man laughed then, merry blue eyes undiluted by sleep danced in his weathered face as he rose, reaching down to swing the two would-be pickpockets onto his shoulders like two spring lambs. As James and Martin stared blankly at the ground that swung just below their heads, the bearded giant introduced himself as Little John of Sherwood.  
  
__________________  
  
The Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon swept into the clearing like avenging angels. Faceless behind their helmets, they rode the small band of outlaws down like animals. Unable to reach the cover of the trees, the leather shod Wolf's Heads could barely loose their arrows in the close quarters of the clearing. Their leather jerkins and linen tunics were scant protection against heavily armored knights riding battle hardened chargers. Scambling, the outlaws screamed each other's names, grouping and then scattering like birds under the relentless assault. The cold iron of a Templar sword slammed through James' side. The Templars wheeled their horses then and charged onto the rise, a struggling Much crying out against them as the Wolf's Heads fled into the trees. Martin knelt over James as the bondsman turned outlaw's stolen life pooled in the grass.   
  
________________________________  
  
They buried James in Sherwood before following the Templars to the village they had commandeered. The following evening, with the Templars vanquished, Much saved from hanging, and the village freed from taxes by Templar gold, the outlaws returned to Sherwood and stood again by the lake, in a moment that grew no easier with the repetition. In the rush, they had not forgotten. They could not forget. Once again the sunset was matched by the gleam of flame from pitch-soaked arrows. Like metal tipped birds, they flew briefly above the mist as the protectors of Sherwood honored another fallen friend.   
  
"Our friends who died..they'll never starve, or be tourtured, or chained in the dark. They're here with us in Sherwood. Because they're free. Nothing is forgotten. Nothing is ever forgotten."-Robin of Loxley 


End file.
